Amy Snow

by Tracy Rees

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Gothic

Synopsis

Abandoned on a bank of snow as a baby, Amy is taken in at Hatville Court, but despised by family and household alike. The beautiful Hatville heiress, Aurelia Vennaway, is Amy's only advocate. So when Aurelia dies young, Amy's world collapses. But Aurelia leaves Amy with one last gift - a bundle of letters with a coded key and a treasure hunt that only Amy can follow.

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Print pages: 576

Sample

Amy Snow

Chapter One

I know they are watching me go. The road out of the village is long and straight. It will be miles before it bends, carrying me out of sight of the upper windows of the grand house. I know what they see: a nothing, a nobody. A small, staunch figure, lonely in mourning black, stiff skirts rustling about my boots, cloak fast against the cold. A crisp black bonnet settled grim upon my head and ribbons whipped by the wind. What a desolate January traveler I must represent.

Frost on the fields and upon the road, the village empty and forlorn, my boots leaving a trail of prints that peter into infinity. That is what they hope I will do—vanish like a melted footprint. If I can, I will oblige them. My reason for being here, the only person I have ever loved, now lies beneath six feet of earth and thick, shadow-green boughs of yew in a quiet corner of the churchyard. She was laid there yesterday.

The air is so cold that the tears are flayed from my eyes, eyes I had thought to be finished with crying for all time. After the biblical floods I have shed in the last three days, I thought there could be no water left in my depleted form. Yet it seems that life, and grief, and winter go on. My toes are numb as I trudge the miles that lead me away from Aurelia’s grave and from Hatville Court, the only home, grudging as it was, that I have ever known.

•  •  •

Soon enough, it threatens dark. The sharpest sickle moon I have ever seen hangs razor-edged in a gray sky and ahead I see the silhouette of Ladywell, the next village. I have walked for hours.

I stop there because I know I must, although my needs are not the sort to be assuaged by food, or ale, or fire. The chill in my bones is nothing to the freeze in my heart and no congenial company on earth could compensate me for the lack of Aurelia. But the next village is six miles yet farther and the lanes are awash with shadow. It would be the height of folly to go on; a young woman alone has ever been an easy target for villains. And although I have little faith that my life will ever again feel worthwhile, I still do not wish to throw it away. Aurelia may be gone, but she is not done with me yet. I will carry out her wishes in death every scrap as faithfully as I did when she was with me.

I enter the Rose and Crown. With my second, secret legacy from Aurelia I could afford the White Harte Royal, a hotel of some repute. But news flows between Ladywell and Enderby. If it were heard at Hatville Court that Amy Snow was seen taking a room at the Harte, they would be after me tomorrow in their carriage like the hounds of hell. For then they would guess there is more to my legacy than meets the eye.

The Rose and Crown will suffice. The chat in the lounge may not be the most refined for a young lady with a mind to her reputation, but then I am no lady; this has been made abundantly clear to me.

I hesitate in the hall. What am I? Respectable young woman or guttersnipe? Servant, sister, or friend? My role in the tale of Aurelia Vennaway puzzles no one more than me, especially now that I am called upon to conclude it.

“May I help you, miss?” A soft-spoken landlord approaches, clasping his hands as though anxious that his very presence might cause offense. How well I know that feeling.

“Thank you, sir. A room for the night, if you please, and perhaps a little supper—nothing rich—and a warming drink.”

“Certainly, miss, certainly. BELLA!” His welcoming tone leaps to a bellow and a young maid pops into the hall like a jackrabbit from a hole.

“Bella, light the fire in the Barley Room and take the lady’s bag there,” he instructs, resuming his normal pitch. “Might I recommend, miss, that you take supper in the lounge tonight? I would not suggest it except there is a blazing fire there and it will take a while for your room to reach a comfortable temperature. The lounge is quiet—the cold is keeping many at home—and, if you’ll forgive me, you look frozen to the bone, Miss . . . ?”

“Snow.”

He looks at me then, understanding dawning. Bella stands with my bag stretching her skinny arm almost to the floor, gazing with frank curiosity until he orders her on her way.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Snow, if the lounge is acceptable, I will attend to you myself, ensure you are undisturbed. By the time you are fed, your room will be fit to receive you.”

His kindness brings fresh tears to my eyes, and only a supreme effort keeps them there.

I take my supper in the lounge and though I can eat only a little, the warmth and flavor are somewhat fortifying. I do not linger but retire to a small, simple room which is, as promised, tolerably warm. I perform a rudimentary toilette in a daze.

Whilst I walked I conceived the idea to write an account of my time and travels, so as to feel that my life has some substance, some witness. Alone in the silence, Aurelia’s absence presses down upon me, but now is not the time to give in, not so very early on in my quest. I must be as strong as I need to be.

I begin to write. Really, there is nothing else I can do.